That's the card
by medcat
Summary: Written by Egra for the following request: "Mycroft, Lestrade, and Anthea, the three of them playing cards. Providing a good reason for them wasting their time in such a manner falls to the author. Humour or light crack welcome" for the Sherlock BBC Fest comm. Translated from the Russian by me.


**A/N:** This story was originally written by Egra in Russian and published on the Russian fanfic site snapetales dot com, which houses Harry Potter fanfic and fanfic from a large number of other fandoms as well. I translated it as a gift for my good friend and collaborator Captain Facepalm, and Egra has most kindly granted me permission to publish it here.

* * *

The day started out awful. A horrible downpour, simply a horrendous one; the drive to work, which he spent praying that the petrol wouldn't run out, because somebody-an exceedingly busy and fantastically lazy person-had forgotten to stop by the filling station yesterday; an empty coffee-pot and the far too innocent faces of Donovan and that new intern youngster. Lestrade was approaching his office, calm as a boa constrictor, and certain that nothing else could knock him for any further loop. On his table, in carefree poses, the reports had arranged themselves; fresh papers needing signatures, that had been created less than two hours ago, were already snagging at his sleeves with their dog-eared corners; the chair received the inspector as he fell onto it, its springs grumbling in such a familiar and comfortable manner...

And then Sally poked her head into the office and said, in a sinister voice:

"Sir. The Chief."

Two words, seven letters, ten pounds of bricks falling on one's head. Lestrade straightened up.

"Eyebrows?"

Donovan closed her eyes and shook her head. That was bad.

The eyebrows of Chief Inspector Barley were a code system, which every old-timer of Scotland Yard knew how to decode and which every neophyte, who was at all interested in his career and his well-being quickly learned. Barley's eyebrows were exceptionally precise indicators of his mood; Lestrade was particularly proud of the fact that sometimes, he could even predict the changes in the chief's behaviour according to the change in position of Barley's eyebrows in time and space. One could write long dissertations and scientific articles with sesquipedalian words about them, if the human factor had not been so strong here and if one could prove any kind of consistent pattern. For the capricious and flighty eyebrows to become your allies, you had to pay constant attention to them, to obsequiously watch their every move, to feel them; but if you carried out these tacit rules, you could relax just a little and to endure the quarrelsome personality of the Chief Inspector more calmly.

Today the eyebrows were parallel to each other: the outer margin of the right one and the inner margin of the left one have flown up, the inner margin of the right and the outer margin of the left, respectively, have descended downwards. This disposition has given Lestrade, as soon as he walked in and respectfully stood at the doorway, a few key words: frustration, being upset, and being at a loss, periodically to the point of despair. According to the received data, Lestrade concluded that Donovan ought to get more practice, because things are not as frightening as she'd thought, and as to himself, he ought to assume an attentive expression and wait.

"Sit down, sit down," Barley waved his stubby hand at the chair. "This is no time to stand on ceremony, mate."

Lestrade obediently sat down, Barley heaved a sigh and returned to gazing at the whitish sky out the window at which he stood. The pale scattered shadow of his large body lay somehow wetly on his desk; the inspector was always a little envious of the ideal order on that desk. Barley sighed once more, moved away from the window and slowly sank into an armchair, picked up a pencil, which lay at exactly the right angle to the short side of the table, and started twirling it in his fingers. Lestrade was waiting patiently.

"Here's the thing, Greg…"

Lestrade greatly disliked when his chief addressed him by his first name: only twice in his long memory what happened afterwards was not entirely bad for the inspector. One time, "Greg" was called on the carpet when his ex-wife called him. The second time he was accompanying the chief, who'd had a few too many after a corporate party and frequently kept looking for handcuffs and attempting to tie Lestrade's hands behind his back, to the car, where he was granted a good-natured, "Good boy, Greg" and a powerful punch to the shoulder.

"Here's the thing, Greg," repeated the Chief, and Lestrade winced. "I'm not going to beat about the bush, we're not children, and you're not a blushing maiden. We have serious problems with our beloved MI-6. A week ago, they started receiving threatening letters."

The inspector already opened his mouth so as to start laughing, loudly and merrily, but Barley's left eyebrow rose half an inch, then lowered by a quarter, and the right one depicted the mathematical sign of "directly proportional to", and Lestrade couldn't help saying, stunned,

"Joking aside? But for many countries they are still a half-doubtful rumour!"

Barley was about to get angry at such a free expression of feelings, but sniffed and changed his mind. Instead, he leaned across the desk and said, in a confidential tone,

"Not joking at all, Greg. It started with letters, as I'd said, continued with damaged brakes in the staff's cars, and now, apparently, it's quickly approaching its climax-yesterday, they found a bomb underneath the staircase. In a plastic bag from Harrod's. Under the spiral staircase, in full view of everybody, a bomb was found, which would have been capable, at a minimum, of blowing to pieces the entire ground floor and this staircase in addition, and also, if nothing else, of frightening to death the office plankton. And my personal experience tells me, that when the plankton is frightened and hides in its holes, or wherever it is that it lives, the whales have nothing to eat and they start dying off."

Dumbfounded, Lestrade leaned back after the word "bomb" and since then, he kept pressing himself tighter against the back of the chair, as if every sentence Barley spoke were another loop, which chained the inspector more closely to the accursed chair.

"And what are we supposed to do?" he inquired in a choked voice, looking at the Chief askance.

"Carry out an operation," replied the Chief, not straightening up and continuing to drill into Lestrade with his shrewd gaze, "which we had prepared not without the help of an undercover agent we sent in a week ago."

The offended professional pride forced Lestrade to tear apart the imaginary bonds with a strong effort of will and to straighten his back so much that it made a crunching sound.

"Why haven't I been told?" that sounded like a complaint of a whining child, but, doggone it, for what reason and since when is such important information not being shared with him?

"Relax, Greg", the boss's right eyebrow bristled up, ominously, and Lestrade swallowed nervously, feeling the air whistle out of his aplomb. "For you, I've saved up something special. You know this great navigator of theirs, the brother of your psycho-pseudo-detective, don't you?"

Inspector nodded, very cautiously.

"Then you probably also know that he will never let us navigate the situation, that means, he'll be getting underfoot, and if, God forbid," Barley rolled his eyes and pressed his hands to his chest, "he should get hurt...I don't, I don't even want to think about what would happen to all of us in that case."

The Chief Inspector fell silent. Lestrade wondered if he should copy his boss's pose, but right then Barley lowered his arms, returned his eyes to their normal position and continued,

"Now then, you are entrusted with making sure that Holmes Sr. is not underfoot for us."

Until that moment, as it turned out, Lestrade had not known the sharp taste of genuine despair, liberally flavoured with terror.

"Sir, is this a punishment for something?" he asked quietly, wanting at least to understand what he must avoid, at all costs, doing in the future, so as to avoid this happening again. "Something akin to disciplinary action?"

The Chief Inspector chewed on his lip and sighed, as if giving in.

"If you manage to master him and not let him escape-you'll be sitting in my place within a month," said he and leaned back in his armchair.

Lestrade very much felt like yelling out for the entire Yard to hear, that in the best case, he'll be sitting in prison, for a couple dozen years, with the confiscation of property, but he only lifted his eyes, full of suffering, up to his boss' face, and meekly asked,

"How would I be able to do that?" then remembered that he was a well-mannered person, after all, and added, "I didn't know that you are planning to leave, sir."

The question, in its implication, was somewhat rhetorical, but Barley didn't notice that and replied,

"Think of something, you've a head on your shoulders, don't you? Listen, Lestrade," he leaned forward again, and the inspector grew wary, "I am leaving of my own will and I want a competent person to take my place. Don't let me down, don't make me leave in disgrace, ashamed of my subordinates and disappointed in you."

Lestrade looked at the Chief doubtfully. The eyebrows twitched in a sincere manner, expressing only extreme honesty and openness.

"For how long do I have to neutralize him?" asked the inspector.

Barley's face was wreathed in smiles.

"Only for one evening," said he in a happy tone of voice and curved his eyebrows in even friendly arcs. "Tonight, from five to nine."

As the famous saying goes, "In much knowledge is much sorrow." In Mycroft Holmes's case, there were twice as many sorrows, because to the knowledge was added a huge, keenly realized responsibility. And though Lestrade could halfway manage to deal with the hypertrophied brain of his younger brother, to deal with this acrimonious character he could only thanks to his ability to disconnect from the outside world and to connect back exactly at the moment when something important was happening or being said. That is why at this time, the inspector, an abstracted expression on his face, was sitting on his chair in Barley's office and waiting for Mycroft to let off steam, lazily scanning the muttered words for something along the lines of "All right, let's go".

"I have no desire to be holed up, while my building is being destroyed, and my staff are risking their lives, attempting to save it from complete destruction," Mycroft stalked past Barley's desk for the thousandth time. "I have no desire to be cut off from the outside world for four hours. You have no right to keep me locked up."

Mycroft's assistant was sitting on a chair next to the wall, her hands folded on her knees, and calmly watched the Chief. Lestrade glanced at her from time to time, she looked over at him and nodded, barely perceptibly, and the inspector felt much calmer.

"Mr. Holmes," Barley's eyebrows bristled up, imploringly. "I had told you a thousand times already that everything has been approved by the upper management,"-respectable pause,-"and we guarantee to you that the operation will be implemented quickly and unnoticeably, and even the smallest bit of paper won't move from its place. Finally, think of your country!"

Judging by the fact that Mycroft's movements slowed down, this last appeal had touched some strings of his patriotic soul. He stopped at the desk, rocked the paperweight shaped like a squat lemon tree and said:

"Very well. But if anything like this happens behind my back one more time…"

The Chief Inspector didn't stay to listen to the end of the statement, surprisingly easily got out from behind the desk and ran out of the office, saying, "I'll go give orders, Lestrade, you know what to do." Lestrade sighed, returning to reality, and politely looked at Mycroft. Holmes the elder stood by the desk a little while longer, one hand in his pocket, the index finger of his other hand tracing patterns on the tabletop, then turned to Lestrade and gave him an appraising look. Lestrade tensed up, and the next minute, almost choked, because Mycroft smiled...if this weren't Mycroft, Lestrade would have thought-ingratiatingly, and that frightened him even more.

"Inspector," Holmes the elder sang out, and the layer of honey in his voice was so thick that the steel underneath it was nearly inaudible. "Maybe we could come to a mutually beneficial agreement? For example, simply to wait in the car on the next street over? There will be no harm done, as long as nobody finds out about it. And I will certainly find a way of expressing my gratitude."

Lestrade closed his eyes, struggling with the desire to stick his head under the carpet, concentrated and rapped out:

"I have my orders, sir."

The smile immediately faded from Mycroft's face; he made an indistinct sound, which Lestrade didn't dare to try to interpret, spun on his heels and came up against a meaningful look on the assistant's face.

"What?" now there was irritation in his voice, and Mycroft did not attempt to hide it in the least.

Anthea slowly shook her head. Mycroft snorted, as if that had been a sign of some sort, and walked over to the window; prudently, as Lestrade noted, not moving outside the limits of of the wall. The inspector moved over to stand on the other side, likewise not demonstrating his presence there. A couple minutes later he looked at his watch. A black car drove up to the front entrance, and two people came out of the front lobby: a tall man wearing a long coat with a raised collar, carelessly leaning on his umbrella (Mycroft heaved a sorrowful sigh) and a woman who was hiding her chin in a fluffy scarf. They got into the car, the car started off; as soon as it moved a few meters away, an inconspicuous small car which was parked across the street, soundlessly started and slowly drove after it. Lestrade nodded in a satisfied manner and said, looking after the small car:

"I hope your driver knows his trade well."

Mycroft wrinkled his nose and pulled in air through his teeth. If that was supposed to be an attempt to hold back from saying something cutting, it failed.

"I have more doubts about your people, Inspector. I don't waddle like that at all, when I walk." Lestrade didn't bat an eye, and Mycroft sighed tiredly, walking away from the window and sitting down on the desk. "So, inspector, what awaits us now?"

"We shall wait for a bit," Lestrade, who continued attentively watching the visible piece of the street, paused, taking a closer look at the shadow next to the house across the street, and Mycroft caustically finished the sentence,

"...and then we'll sneak into our hole?"

"Exactly," Lestrade agreed meekly. "Except that I don't have a hole, it's quite a decent flat."

"Oh, so we have been granted the honour of being hidden in Inspector Lestrade's very own apartment," this time Anthea's warning look had no effect, and Mycroft started pacing around the room. "Without phones, without contacts with the threatening outside world. Can you even imagine, Inspector," Lestrade had never heard an ordinary word being infused with that much venom before, "how many things I normally accomplish in four hours? And, subsequently, how my absence from my post can influence the levels, which are metaphorically called the upper ones?"

While Holmes was contemptuously curving his lips and gracefully waving his arm about, Lestrade, having once again turned off his hearing, patiently observed his watch, and when Mycroft fell silent, taking in a deep breath, the inspector peeled himself off the wall, gave a friendly smile and said,

"That's it, we can go."

Mycroft breathed out, like an enraged bull, and rushed to the door, not looking at anyone.

They reached their destination without any further trouble. Nobody was following them, Lestrade had been attentively watching the rearview mirror. Mycroft was sulkily sniffling in the back seat, not paying any attention to the looks his assistant was giving him, but if one wanted to, one could actually regard this as somewhat pleasant.

The problems started when they went upstairs to the flat and Lestrade, suspiciously listening to the silence of the building, thoroughly locked the door. Lestrade was neither an idealist nor a person who unquestioningly believed in people always having good sense, but when Mycroft immediately started pacing circles around the living room in an irritated manner, and it became clear that this infuriated dancing would continue for the entire four hours, the inspector felt a sudden unpleasant surprise. Anthea looked at him and gave a sympathetic sigh.

"May I offer you something, sir, ma'am?" Lestrade, trying to overcome his annoyance, tried as hard as he could to be a polite host and to sound welcoming.  
Mycroft stopped his pacing for a second and flamed him with a furious look. Anthea gave a slight smile and shook her head in the negative, then bemusedly watched her boss, got up and said,  
"I'd like to wash my hands, Inspector, if you don't mind."

Lestrade, hearing her voice for the first time, was startled, opened his mouth slightly and nodded at the door. She looked at him a little more closely and barely noticeably motioned with her head, inviting him to come with her. Inspector glanced askance at Mycroft, who failed to notice anything going on around him, and sidled out the room behind the young woman.

"If we don't calm him down, in an hour and a half he'll explode and do something really stupid," Anthea said quickly, firmly taking Lestrade by the elbow and dragging him further into the hallway. "We must think of something, Inspector, and very quickly."

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders.  
"We must," he replied, "but what? Shall we play a word game? Read aloud?"  
Anthea fell silent, biting her lower lip.

"Do you have a deck of cards, Inspector? Do you play poker?" she asked suddenly, and Lestrade nodded, raising his eyebrows in surprise. "He doesn't know how to play poker. If he finds himself in an enclosed space with people who are able to do something he can't, he immediately tries to find out all the secrets of their craft," the young woman smiled meaningfully. "If we portion out the secrets, they should be enough for four hours. It's even possible you'll have to kick him out of here."

The admiration that shone in Lestrade's gaze right now he only felt for two people before: his father and the Chief Inspector, when he first started working under him.  
"Ask me for anything you want, if that'll only work," he whispered and rushed to find the deck of cards.  
When he returned, Anthea was sitting at the table and contemplating her nails, and Mycroft has not decreased his speed one bit.

"How about if we play cards?" announced Lestrade and showed the small worn box, to be more convincing.  
Anthea raised her head in interest, but Mycroft didn't even glance at the inspector.  
Lestrade looked at Anthea, she nodded and said,  
"I don't know a single card game, inspector, but if you would teach me…"  
"Certainly," replied Lestrade, looking sideways at Mycroft. "There's an excellent game-poker; it requires attention, courage, and brains. I'll explain the rules."  
"I am all ears," said Anthea.

Lestrade took a sheet of paper and started scrawling different card combinations, narrating the main concepts and terms of the game meanwhile. Anthea was listening and asking questions from time to time, and soon they noticed that bit by bit, the whirlwind pacing began to slow down and to move nearer to the table, and the snorting and indistinct cursing began to grow quieter. When Lestrade dealt out cards for the first round, the pennies tinkled and the inspector opened a flop, Mycroft was no longer racing around but sauntering around the table in a dignified manner, still pretending that he was not interested in anything besides his own unfairly hurt feelings, and looking over the players' shoulders. The players, on the other hand, diligently pretended to be fully engaged in the game, drove up the stakes, exclaimed in satisfaction or in chagrin and pretended to be awfully surprised, when a third chair was dragged along the floor with a scraping noise towards the table and Mycroft demanded they deal the cards to him, not noticing the look which the inspector and Anthea exchanged.

The next morning, Sally, worried by the dead silence in the inspector's office, cautiously opened the door, stuck her head inside and saw Lestrade, head lying on folded arms on the table, fast asleep. She carefully closed the door, and when she returned in a couple of minutes, carrying a huge mug of coffee, her boss was already scrubbing his fist across his eyes, pressing the phone receiver to his ear with his shoulder. Donovan put the mug down on the table and interestedly stared at her boss. He spent a long time listening on the phone, blinking often, then thanked the person at the other end of the line politely, told them good-bye, put the receiver down, and grabbed the mug with both hands.

"How did it go, sir?" Sally couldn't hold it in any longer.  
Lestrade looked at her over the edge of the mug and loudly exhaled into the mug.  
"That was his assistant who was on the phone just now. She said that she thanks me on behalf of the Ministry and she wishes me a successful move up the career ladder. And also that I take a deep breath and hold it when I have strong cards, and that I freeze for two and a half seconds when I'm about to bluff."

Sally looked at the inspector in concern. He shaded his eyes with his hand.

"But how did it go yesterday, sir?"

"Yesterday," said Lestrade dully, fell silent and continued, "Anthea proposed an excellent plan, that is, it would've been an altogether great plan, if it weren't for its consequences. We taught him how to play poker, and he, naturally, soon learned all the secrets of the game, down to the last one, he's a damn Holmes, isn't he!" Inspector emitted an indistinct sound, remotely similar to a very heavy sigh. "Then Barley called, they left, and then they returned, and he mocked me half the night-he claims it's easier to read me than to deal the cards, and he didn't fall for any of my tricks," Lestrade looked up at Sally, his eyes full of despair. "And I always was so proud of how my opponents could never read me! Can't a person have even one thing to be proud of? Even my father couldn't beat me at poker! And Barley said that he's very pleased with me, told me to quietly get ready to move to another office and he also said that he's happy that all the future contacts with the Ministry will pass into such capable hands."

Lestrade once again covered his eyes with his hand, and Sally tried to slip out of his office as quietly as she could, suddenly feeling a tender affection toward her own job.


End file.
